


Everything Is Fine.

by Aprocrastinatorrr3000



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Marble Hornets
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Jeff isn't a love interest bc i don't like him, M/M, Multi, ever watch marble hornets?, me plotting: i've connected the dots, me plotting: i've connected them, my brain: you haven't connected shit, nina is revised and better i swear-
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23766673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aprocrastinatorrr3000/pseuds/Aprocrastinatorrr3000
Summary: [warnings. violence, language, non-con probably]violent. unstable. that's what they thought of her when they caught her in the dense underbrush of the wood, cackling hysterically and mumbling phrases of broken conversations. the unconscious girl beside her was left for the wolves.they took her. stole her from her destiny, her death, her desire.she'll get her revenge.
Relationships: i'm rooting for the proxy trio-, probably polyamory or sth bc i don't like to hurt feelings, whatever happens will happen
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

“Bitch,” she spits, whitening knuckles tainted with a wiped trace of crimson as she lands another fist into the person’s swollen face. The slits on the skin over her joints sting and burn an angry red. But the busted and bleeding skin on her large, calloused hands is not of importance; the whimpering girl who writhes like an exposed worm on the blood-splattered cement is. 

Samantha Commings was an average bully, just a girl in a world who found some sort of twisted pleasure in tearing down her peers. Her once pretty olive skin has been made ugly with blossoming flowers of blue, purple, and black and one of her dazzling brown eyes is shut tight from the swelling of the right hook her attacker sent her way. Samantha feels like her entire body is on fire but no matter how hard she cries, the tears didn't stop the raging flames that engulf her. 

Her limbs ache when she attempts to rise from the cold ground. A foot sets roughly onto her left hip and pushes her off balance and a dark laugh splits the air as her body crumples to the floor. 

“You really are pathetic,” her attacker remarks, feminine voice angry and low and evil while Samantha lets another weak sob rock her young body, chest shaking with ragged breaths, and falls limp. A strong hand grips her hair and yanks her head back, back, and back, until Samantha sees the dangerous glitter in her eyes. 

Before the assaulter can speak, the poor girl exclaims through her bawling, “I’m sorry! I-I’m so-o-o s-soh-sorry!”

But the hand in her hair didn’t let up. Instead it tightens and tightens until Samantha lets out a pained and loud whimper, mouth and eyes widening. “You ever say things about my family, ever again,” the voice threatens, “I’ll gut you myself. Alright, sweetheart?”

Samantha nods frantically, crying harder as the reality of what could have been dawned on her. She could have died tonight, she could have been another dead body in the alleyway and no one would have noticed, except the girl that she fell prey to.

The evil girl picks up her discarded backpack and casts a pitiful, guilty glance Samantha's way. She doesn't say anything, but the tenseness of her intimidating muscles and the deadly glare on her face gives it away: she'd kill Samantha if she got the chance. She was being merciful.

Samantha thanks God she was. The blonde girl knows she crossed a line when she went after [name] but she couldn't hold back the bubbling rage she felt when [name] nonchalantly sicced the whole classroom on her. While she lay on the cold, alley floor, Samantha Commings understands that she is indeed a terrible kid, and maybe this wouldn't have happened if she were nicer. 

She'll be nicer.

But first, she has to get back home and make up a lie.


	2. Consider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "oh my god! samantha, what the hell happened?"
> 
> " . . . i got into a fight and got my ass handed to me."
> 
> "with who? why? my god, come here, you're bleeding all over my carpet! i'm calling the school first thing in the morning-"
> 
> "don't, mom. i deserved it. i shouldn't have bullied her an' her friends."

"Ah, damn!" she shouts as the oven burns her hand for the third time. 

From her left her mother laughs sweetly and says, "Language." Her small, gentle hands are chopping cilantro and her focus is pinpointed on the green leaves. "Don't put your hands by the oil."

[name] hisses as she runs her hand under the kitchen faucet and glares grimly at her busted, black-and-blue knuckles as her father's dark hand runs the cold water. The taco shells are popping in the heated oil behind her, but she doesn't seem to care. Her mind is on the girl she beat three days ago. 

She hadn't done much, just a simple warning like her Daddy taught her: A black eye, jabs to the soft parts of her, and a couple nice punches to her pretty little pale face.

[name] wouldn't call herself proud of the pain she inflicted, though she is proud of how scared Samantha Commings is of her now. So far, she hasn't stepped a toe out of line and respected [name's] family, and to the [last names], family was anyone close. 

Samantha was not a "popular girl" and nor was she everyone's terrorizer, but she had a way of weeding out the weak-minded and bullying them. She seemed to have done it simply because she could. [name] and her group of friends decided enough was enough and lured Samantha into agreeing to fight [name] outside school, where there were no teachers to intervene. [name], taught by her father, delivered a beating to ensure Samantha knew not to mess with [name] and her posse.

And it worked beautifully.

"Ai, hija," her mother says as she drops her cilantro into a black bowl on the granite counter next to the sink, "what happened to your hand?"

[name] glares at the oven, "What happened to my han- You just saw! The oven burned-"

"Your knuckles, [name]!" Sternly, her mother picks her hand from the sink and shuts off the water, examining the cuts. Her piercing black eyes meet [name's] and the girl shrinks away, caught red-handed. She gasps dramatically but seriously, "Did you get into another fight?"

[name] doesn't respond.

"Ah?" Her mother raises her voice, sounding threatening.

"Y-Yes, mama," [name] murmurs and her mother lets loose a disappointed and irritated sound from her throat. 

The woman drops her hand, returning to the cilantro to bring it to the table. "I knew we shouldn't have let you teach her to fight," she accuses her husband, pointing her angry gaze at him. He throws his hands up, trying to look innocent. "It was too much! And now mi niña es becoming one of your" - she waves her hands dismissively above her head as she tries to think of the words - "Your amigos!" 

"[mother's name], please-" Her husband pleads. 

"No! You tell her to 'please'!" The woman fixes her bun she styled for work and marches through the arch that opened the kitchen to the rest of the house. 

[name] glances at her father, who is staring straight at her. The taco shells pop in the oil and she spins around to scoop them out and place them in the strainer lined with paper towels. They're steaming, white mist flowing up to the ceiling and dampening the brown wooden cupboards. Condensation gathers along the light brown wood, little droplets dripping down, down-

"What did you do this time, kid?" Her father's low voice asks as he sets the table.

[name] freezes, her hand suffering in the oil as her fist collides with Samantha's round face in her head. A crack! fills her ears and suddenly all she can think about is the girl sobbing on the floor as her face is bruising and her ribs heave with another cry.

The soft clatter of silverware against the wooden table startles [name] from her stupor and she says quietly, "A girl was bullying my friends, so . . ." She places a few soft tacos into the oil and pushes on each of them.

"You beat the shit out of 'er?" Her dad responds, a smile in his voice.

[name] nodded absently.

"That bad, huh?"

[name] nods again.

The oil pops violently as [name] adds tortillas cut into small triangles in the deep pan but she does not seem to be worried as the bubbles hit her skin. "I broke her nose, Dad. She was sobbing but I hit 'er again," she whispered. "Am . . . am I bad?"

Her father says nothing but pulls out a high stool at the lifted counter in front of the sink. He sits, watching [name] but she doesn't look back. After he clears his throat he says, "The first time I beat someone it was because he hit my wife. It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity." His dark hands began slicing into ripe avocados vertically, scooping their seeds onto a napkin and the edible greens into a red mixing bowl. "I thought I was the devil," he confessed, "because that man was crying like I never seen a man cry, and I made him do it."

"Were you?"

"No," he answers, drawing his eyebrows together and shaking his head. "The devil was a strong man that hit a frail woman. He deserved to be put in his damn place even if it made me a little bad inside." [father's name] slowly smashes the avocado greens into a mush and begins to add in milk and various seasonings. His black eyes meet [name's] as she looks over his shoulder at him. "You're not bad," he reassures her, "and you don't do bad shit unless you have a reason. 'Member Darryl?"

Darryl Hilter, the dark-skinned boy who wouldn't leave [name's] girl friends alone. She kicked his ass in the street after he "slickly" asked Vanessa for pictures of her nude body. The whole neighborhood witnessed his defeat and Darryl hadn't bothered [name's] friends since.

"You're not bad." Her dad repeats. "Just because you've got a little blood on your hands doesn't mean you're bad. I'm not bad."

"We're people," [name] says, remembering her Dad's favorite line.

[name's] dad nods with a smile. "We're jus' fuckin' people." He finishes the guacamole and sets the large bowl on the oval table behind him. "You can tell me about it later. Are the tacos done?" At his daughter's confident nod, he grins and sets off to find his wife and children. 

Izabelle Rodriguez finds nothing wrong with her brain. In fact, she thinks she's pretty mentally healthy compared to her best friend. She hasn't touched a living thing in a fatal way or held someone at gunpoint like her daddy.

A couple mood swings and irritation don't change the status of her brain, her therapist told her at last week's session. She was still healthy. Kathy Bryson insisted it was the stress of senior year, what with the anticipation of a college's acceptance letter hanging on her shoulders. It seemed completely sensible she was having an off week because of her school's stress. She is convinced, or at least is trying to convince herself.

Izabelle Rodriguez watches the sunset from atop her roof everyday, chocolate eyes following the yellow circle as it dips below the trees behind her house and into the waters of California's coast. The girl wants to follow the sun into deep space, away from her school, and her behavior-altering stress, and the monster in the redwood forest, and her nagging, bickering parents. She wants so desperately to land on another planet and meet the locals, say hello to the purple people or the green aliens, see bioluminescent plants, strange creatures, or multiple moons. It has been her one wish since she was a toddler, when she colored her Build-A-Bear cardboard box like an astronaut's helmet and watched her mother fly toy rockets around the living room.

She coughs into her elbow and stands, making her way down the slanted roof. Izabelle left the ladder by her window, she remembers that much. She can remember the way the corners of it cut into her hands and the splintering wood that poked her skin, how her muscles tensed under her skin getting it to fall the right way, and how she held her breath and braced her body until it hit the roof's side. But she can't remember why she is climbing down, why she was up there to begin with.

The girl can't seem to remember much of what she's been doing lately. She knows they're not important, the things she does when the clock strikes twelve, but it irks her something nasty how the littlest things slip her mind. Izabelle lays awake at night, wondering why in the world she can't remember what she does. Her therapist tells her she also couldn't remember things when she was Izabelle's age, something about being too busy to absorb the fine details. The high schooler waved off her spotty memory and continued her life.

Izabelle lowers herself through the small rectangle that makes her window, the black screen abandoned somewhere on the dirt ground below the windowsill. The white of her bedroom walls are gray with shadows but Izabelle barely notices the way they dance. Her brain is stuck on the fact that she can't remember when she busted the screen off of her window nor can she remember the last time she crawled through it because she normally uses the sliding back door to reach the ladder. Confused, she wonders why she bothered to use it just now.

Her computer screen is black and timed out yet Izabelle finds it completely irrelevant and ignores the monitor whirring softly. Homework papers are strewn about her desk, unfinished from procrastination and a distant buzzing in Izabelle's empty headspace. She doesn't bother to try working.

Tired and suddenly dizzy, Izabelle drops onto her bed and sighs as she presses a soft hand to her forehead. 

The buzzing has been persistent. She hears it at all the wrong times of the day and it begins to cackle and churn like a speaker that's been blown out and playing on high at night when she's attempting sleep. It's as though the satellite of her brain is tampered with or missing and the television inside her mind is black and white and spitting white noise. Sometimes when it comes, her memory begins to spiral out of control and images and recollections and sounds and urges appear in thoughts and soon she's waking up on her floor to her blaring alarm with no knowledge of last night, a terrible taste on her tongue and a bad feeling in her chest. 

Izabelle has learned how to help somewhat remember things. 

In her top right drawer she keeps a green composition book tucked under her fuzzy socks, sports bras, and midnight snacks. Written on the first few pages are what she remembers of her life so far: birthdays, elementary school, vivid memories of junior high disasters, friends, sleepovers. The realization her father was involved with dangerous people, the week her dad went missing but her mother seemed like she knew what it was about, the struggle of freshman year, targeted by bullies and hormonal children. Her sophomore crush, leaping out of the closet. Junior revelations, a virus, avoiding [name] like a plague because Izabelle accidentally told the girl her feelings toward her. She writes whenever she can remember it. It's useless junk she might want to know if she loses her memory because of the buzzing. 

Taking the comp notebook from the drawer, Izabelle snatches the blue pen from the surface of her white dresser and flips open to the notes. Her eyes search the pages, reading and rereading and triple-checking. It's the only way to wake up with a faint idea of who she is.

Izabelle thinks hard about herself.

She has a best friend and Izabelle knows she spends a lot of time with her best friend. She remembers a movie night at the theater both in late winter and early spring, sneaking into the woods at midnight, splashing around in the puddles from countless days of rain. [name] had taken her to the fair last year and won Izabelle a large teddy bear she holds when she gets lonely.

The girl loves that bear.

Izabelle tries to remember why they went into the woods, when she clearly remembers them staring at the "NO TRESPASSING" signs all over the fences. 

She just knew she trusted [name] very much. Maybe it was a little too much.


End file.
